


The Letter

by cortchuzska



Series: Tales of love lost [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: A letter: hard to write, and harder to read.





	1. Doran

The Prince of Dorne winced and put down his quill again, the one Caleotte had chosen so carefully: not too thin and well-balanced, sharpened and dipped in the darkest ink brought from Yi-Ti by late Prince Oberyn. Yet, even a feather was too much weight for his gnarled fingers.

“No more than a thimble, my Prince.” The maester offered.

“Thank you, but I want my wits about me.” Doran Martell turned him down; not that Caleotte had expected otherwise.

Nonetheless, he insisted. “Let me help you: speak and I'll write down the letter for you, as we have being doing lately.”

The weary lines on the Prince brow tightened in a determined frown. “This one, I need to write myself.”

“The address, at least.” Caleotte wouldn't give up. He had learned persistence from his prince; had there been a link for such art, Doran Martell would have been its archmaester.

The Prince breathed heavily. “The address is the easy part.”

 _Norvos_.

Gout was not what pained him the most.


	2. Mellario

“Ser Drey, if you would?” Vair-slippered dainty feet tapped on the floor.

He got back to himself. “Forgive me, my lady. It bears House Martell sun and spear, but the hand doesn't look like maester Caleotte's nor maester Mile's.”

Nor of any other maester for that matter, that Mellario could see from afar. The penmanship would have disgraced a clumsy boy learning his letter.

“Mayhap the maester injured his writing hand.” Drey offered her, along with the sheet.

Mellario wished it to be true, but she had already known the style.

Doran had never stopped writing regularly, even when she had not answered back; but his hand had grown more and more uncertain, and for some time now the maester had been penning down the Prince's letter, yet he always signed them by himself. Mellario despite her better self kept skimming them for his signature, scrambled as it was.

_D. N. M._

A scribble, that was all she had now of him, her husband, the one who had one shone so bright in Norvos pale light and drab colours. His shine had turned dull under the ruthless Dornish sun, yet her Prince was a sun of Dorne as well, no less harsh, no less cruel.

“Nothing too serious, I am sure.” Dalt tried to ease the worry he could read on her face.

He might yet be right: at the news of the wars in Westeros, she had blessed once more her husband's love for peace – no matter what, he would keep their children safe.

She recalled the tense days after King's Landing sack, when Oberyn had stormed into the Prince of Dorne's solar crying for revenge, and had been denied.

“By the end, it would only mean more blood. More _innocent_ blood.” Doran had remarked. “A small effort for me to call the banners, you said. No effort at all: thinned as they are, the Dornish lances have not yet been dismissed.”

Doran had squeezed her hand then, she remembered. “Sit and have a look Oberyn.” he had pointed at a window lavishly appointed in orange silk: her favourite, with the best view on the pools. The memory of its bench hospitable cushions still made her blush. “I am fond of those children; my own daughter is amongst them, a dark haired head in many; yours could be there as well. ”

Doran paused.

“The precious little left of our army, earned us the name of traitors before the Mad King, but it would not be enough to take down the Usurper, and it can barely defend Dorne.. No need of another Prince who would follow his feelings and rain fire and blood on those he should take care of.”

Oberyn dark countenance grew even stormier, and Areo stepped forward as he made to stand up, fearing for his Prince; but there was no need for it; he had already fallen back, paled, as on his face anger had given way to writhing pain.

Mellario almost pitied him, as long as the Red Viper of Dorne, albeit crushed under her husband's heel, could be pitied on. Doran could be utterly ruthless in his unassuming way, and was turning against Oberyn his promptness at making out what he would not say. A skill she had oft times cursed and envied, since the man she had married had grown out of the habit of speaking his mind when it mattered the most, and assumed she possessed the same ability.

Oberyn would have challenged the comparison to Rhaegar Targaryen, but now he was the one accusing himself of the Dragon's behaviour; and turning the younger Prince into his own inquisitor was a more excruciating torment than having him on the rack.

With Doran, what left unsaid always weighted more than his spare words. Why had her husband bothered to write in his own hand?

She steadied her hands and forced herself to broke the seal.

Was it Arianne, in whose transgression Drey had taken part, but only spilled out they had been caught together in Vaith, Had they eloped and tried to marry in secret, once Doran had denied them again?

Still, she could see no reason for such a stark opposition to their marriage. Dalt seemed a decent young man, even fond of Arianne, of a station fitting her consort, yet his was a small House. The main Lords in Dorne were likely to take as a slight a sign of favour bestowed upon one of their peers, but would not belittle themselves with envy towards the lower rank of nobility. She had come to understand the Dornish pride, and more how the Prince of Dorne's mind worked, in its painstaking balancing and counterbalancing efforts.

Whatever her crime, was it enough to call for Arianne's head? Doran had not even hinted at it, had not let transpire anything of his ire, only a veiled complaint about their daughter's lack of faith in him, but Mellario knew better. How could her husband pretend trust back when he gave none in the first place, when most of all he mistrusted words?

Was it Quentyn, the shy little boy she remembered, sent away by his father for no misdeed of his own, grown far from her into a man whose face she would likely not know any more, or Trystane she had left a toddler and who could not even remember hers? Why had her youngest already been promised, when his older siblings were not even spoken for, and to a Lannister, a Baratheon, to the enemies of House Martell?

 _Dorne as the poorest of the Seven Kingdoms had always made do with a Prince and could ill afford Five Kings at once._ She had repeated herself what written by Sunspear maester on the Prince's behalf. A more ambitious man would have taken the chance, but her husband did not nurture far-fetched plans, he would not risk their children' legacy nor embroil Dorne in the war to put a crown on his head.

She had believed him, still the silly, bedazzled girl, swayed by soft-spoken words! As if she didn't know in which coin the Prince of Dorne would pay his enemies and buy peace.

The words danced before her eyes, blurred for the poor writing as well as for her own tears; all she could do was scanning the lines, looking for a name.

“... Would you rather have me read it?” Andrey Dalt was holding the letter she didn't remember slipping from her fingers.

Mellario shook her head. “No – put it in the fire.”


End file.
